


dream: asleep

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M, Post-Colonization (X-Files)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-27 00:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14413674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: You are here (aren't you?) but where is here?





	dream: asleep

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 19th Lyric Wheel, the 'Rhyme Wheel', January 2005.
> 
> Thanks to Shan for the wonderful Nursery Rhyme.

I.

Picture a room: an empty room, lying shuttered and half-forgotten somewhere. It's dark inside, so dark that you blink your eyes several times to make sure they're open. The smell of mold and dust (and beeswax?) permeates the air, and when you stretch out your hand you feel cobwebs cling to your skin. 

You're not afraid of the dark, though, and the room is familiar to you: you know you've been here before. You can't remember how you came to be here now, but you don't question it. You think you might be dreaming. You sense that a part of you is very tired, so you don't try to wake yourself up. 

You remember where the window is: two steps to the right (there, right there) and you find it. You run your fingers carefully up and down the frame, along the surface; the pane is broken and the wood is rotted through. You find the latch and turn it, slowly, and the tortured creak it makes resembles a human cry so much it raises goose bumps on your arms and makes your heart race with alarm. But the sudden bloom of terror dies in your throat before it can be uttered when a beam of light shines in through a crack in the window. You push it open harder, and glorious sunlight floods your sight, for a moment as blinding as the freshly-banned darkness. 

When your eyes adjust to the brightness, you find yourself smiling: everywhere the light touches, it dissolves the cobwebs, eats away the dust. Grass springs up through the floorboards and vines come crawling in from outside through the window, melting down the walls and the ceiling, green running over everything until the whole room is gone. 

(You never notice that the room had no door.)

 

II.

Picture a clearing: verdant and spacious, ringed by trees on every side. This is where you stand at present. The light, so bright before (just a moment ago?) is now diffuse, and silence hangs about almost like a presence. 

You tell yourself it's early morning: there are dewdrops clinging to the knee-high grass, round as pearls and translucent as tears. Yet you can't imagine yourself ever crying here; there is a lightness in your heart that you dare call peace, and if a distant part of you disagrees and calls it differently (stupor, numbness) you choose not to listen to it. 

You see movement among the far away trees: fleeting, flashes of color and hints of form, too quick to make sense of. The trees stand close together, their canopies touching and meshing, forming a thick roof over the entire forest (or so you imagine) and allowing no light in. You're not afraid of the dark (are you?) but you decide not to venture in there; you might stumble on the gnarled roots, or get tangled in the low lying branches. 

Instead you start to walk: the grass sways and ripples with every step you take, and the scent of living (decaying, dead and dying) things fills your nostrils. You take deep cleansing breaths, and if your head spins for a moment or two sometimes it's only because you're not used to such rich smells. You walk and walk and don't grow tired; you feel you could walk forever. You have a feeling that there's something (maybe someone?) ahead waiting for you. 

(You hardly feel you seem to be walking in place.)

 

III.

Picture a man: you come upon him unexpectedly (in the middle of the clearing, in the middle of a huge circle of burnt and flattened cornstalks) and only notice him because he murmurs something. A word. It might've been your name, but you find that unlikely (you know about names, and they're usually sensible ones like George or Marty, but Fox?) and in any case the man looks asleep; in all probability he doesn't even know you're here. 

You look at him: dark hair, handsome features, well proportioned body if you ignore the missing arm. Something like recognition (a shiver along your spine, a flutter of wings in your gut) flares in you, and you know beyond a doubt that the man's eyes are green even though they're closed. You remember suddenly you don't really know what green looks like (what color is the grass, then, and the trees?) but you long for the man to open his eyes and look at you. Maybe then the nagging feeling at the back of your mind telling you that you're just a ghost will go away. 

You raise your face to the sky: the light is gone, and you think now it was never really there. You're afraid of the dark (weren't you always?) and the trees seem much closer than before (how long ago? when is this?) and there are almost-sounds (please no) at the edge of your hearing. 

You lie down next to the man: you're so tired (you think now you've always been tired) and so, so cold. You shut your eyes tight (and hold him tighter) and choose to believe (you want to believe) you won't be alone when you open your eyes again (not in a room not in the dark not in a clearing), not here (where?) but with him still, and his eyes will be open too and you'll know, you'll remember everything. 

(You don't want to consider you might want to forget.)

**Author's Note:**

> Little Boy Blue 
> 
> Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn,  
> The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn.  
> Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?  
> He's under a haycock, fast asleep.  
> Will you wake him? No, not I,  
> For if I do, he's sure to cry.


End file.
